


the world’s not worth saving (if you ain’t a part of it)

by kookiescoup



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Castiel Loves Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester First Kiss, Dean Winchester Loves Castiel, Emotional Dean Winchester, Eventual Fluff, Feelings, Feelings Realization, Hurt Dean Winchester, I Don't Even Know, I Made Myself Cry, I Tried, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I mean, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Resurrected Castiel (Supernatural), and also, enjoy reading ig, he doesn't really admit anything but, he thinks about him the way he would if they were married for 42 years, i think, imma add things if i remember anything else, set after s15e19, she's only mentioned tho - Freeform, so like, thats all - Freeform, this is basically dean lamenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:47:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29889624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kookiescoup/pseuds/kookiescoup
Summary: dean misses him — to the point where he can't do anything without remembering him.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester





	the world’s not worth saving (if you ain’t a part of it)

**Author's Note:**

> this isn't good by any means, but at least i tried.. actually i started writing it as soon as i finished the show, and so this thing is packed with chaos and emotions, so prepare yourself ig. also, english is not my first language! so i apologize in advance for any mistakes you may find in this, i swear i really tried to make this readable haha
> 
> anygays, enjoy reading! hope you like it xx

with chuck out of the picture, their life finally had some meaning. and, no matter how far from normal it still was, dean started to appreciate it more. the knowledge that all of his decisions were only _his_ was what made everything so much more flavourful; colours were a tad brighter, music a bit louder, food just a little better. sam was happier, too. still worried about everything, still wandering about, trying to find his place in a world that didn’t need instant saving, but dean couldn’t help but bite back a smile at the warm pitch of his voice and the shadow of a grin that never seemed to leave his face.

he felt better, too. baby’s growls sounded calmer when he wasn’t in a rush. hunts were easier, now that there was no one that was willing to dump some biblical undestroyable crap on their heads. life became slower like honey, dripping from their fingers steadily instead of slipping through them. he didn’t need to run anymore.

he was finally free, and yet, he still felt incomplete. 

he couldn’t figure out what was missing, what was the thing that kept him up at night, staring aimlessly at the ceiling and clutching the bedsheets as hot tears carved their way down his face. they made him ashamed; embarrassed him with how much they hurt. they were the dirty secret no one but him was allowed to know, that no one was going to remember as soon as the sun went up and the salty stains evaporated. he hated how powerless they made him feel, still running down his puffy cheeks even though he wanted them to stop, even though he prayed for them to disappear.

days were bright and long, starting with a ray of sunshine slipping through the high windows of the bunker, only to end with soft golds and oranges soaking into the aquamarine sky, blending until their magic ignited, pushing the sun beneath the hills and disappearing eventually, once their job was done. dean watched every sunset with gleaming eyes, unknowingly waiting for that one moment when for just a couple of seconds the delicate yellowish hue looked almost familiar and the wind caressed his face so gently he almost could feel the same warm touch lingering on his skin again. and every single time as the cool air tickled his skin and a shiver shook his body, the feeling came to an end before he was ready for it to stop.

the sky, no matter how clear, was never brighter than those eyes.

he prayed to him every night. even though he knew it was pointless, he still called out to him in his dreams, in his mind. he drew his face on crumpled pieces of paper when his hands were shaking, mouthed his name that he couldn’t bring himself to say out loud, afraid it would cause the final crack in his heart, the last blow to his soul before he falls apart. and it hurt, it stung like a thousand splinters under his skin every single time he remembered his shimmering sapphire eyes, how his nose scrunched when he smiled, the warm tone of his voice and the way it cracked as he said goodbye. and yet, he kept on praying. cried out into the void, his voice unheard and lost in the empty, and he _knew_ it couldn’t wake him up, but he still tried and tried until the sun went up once again, eventually giving into the numbing ache of his heart as the tear stains on his face slowly dried.

sam prayed, too, but not nearly as much as him. he didn’t cry as much, didn’t feel whatever it was that dean felt every time he thought of him. at some point it almost seemed as if he’d accepted it, and dean knew it was the right thing to do; he couldn’t live like this, shouldn’t live like this. but he still prayed, once again pouring all of his soul into desperate cried out pleas that no one but him was ever going to hear.

but maybe _he_ would. maybe he could. maybe all he needed to do was believe in him. just this one last time.

(so he did. he cried again, into the darkness, hoping for someone other than his own echo to answer him.)

  
  


⛦

  
  


sam noticed. dean knew he would. he knew he would stare at him with his puppy eyes, filled with empathy to the very brink, and he would say something so true it would hurt. he would give him advice, tell him to move on and stop trying to remember instead of trying to forget. and dean would either ignore it or take it out on him, breaking just a little bit more, the stitches on his heart once again stretching, trying not to snap.

but it didn’t happen. it didn’t, and it doesn’t. sam almost doesn’t look at him during the drive to banner elk, north carolina, glancing at him (with worry swimming in his eyes, but still) briefly only a couple of times. he doesn’t speak, and neither does dean, keeping his eyes on the road and his mind on the case they’re about to work. baby’s rolling down the rocky streets, her gentle swaying feels almost as if they were little kids in their mother’s warm embrace. the air’s thin, though, and dean can’t even bring himself to hum some lyrics in an attempt to calm himself down, afraid it will become thinner the second he makes a single sound. 

he’s not supposed to think about him now, but he does. every part of the world he lives in reminds him of the way _he_ used to admire and cherish it. impala’s purr is almost the same as it was on the days they both sat on the backseat, their hands not quite touching, but close enough for him to feel the comforting warmth of his palm; the sky looks familiar everywhere he goes, but he still thinks it was prettier when they looked at it at the same time. a part of him is locked within every single detail of the world he used to love, and it hurts, and it’s distracting to the point dean grips the steering wheel until his knuckles are white and his vision is blurry.

so he pulls over. stops the car on the roadside and leans against the headrest for a brief moment. it’s pathetic, the way he tells himself to breathe and can’t bring himself to do so without picturing the way those familiar lips moved, the way his chest heaved slowly as _he_ breathed. and it hurts to try and not cry when all he can think about is how he didn’t even have to breathe, but did it anyway, hoping it would connect him more to humans — the broken, hateful beings, undeserving of the love he gifted them with, too stupid to even see it.

dean breathes, but the air flowing through his system feels nonexistent. trying hard to conceal the trembling of his hands, he unclipps his seatbelt and rolls out of the car and onto the empty road. “i’m tired,” he lies, then coughs in an attempt to make himself sound better. stronger. less broken. “can you drive?”

sam opens his mouth, then closes it hesitantly. eventually, after a few awkwardly silent moments, he sighs under his breath and climbs into the driver’s seat. “yeah, sure,” he smiles, although sadly. (dean pretends not to notice how his usually gleaming eyes seem much more dim now.) “try and get some sleep, ‘kay?”

the backseat smells like him… or maybe dean just doesn’t remember any other scent anymore.

  
  


⛦

  
  


it was a pair of vampires. they killed the first one by accident, really; he flashed his teeth at them and his eyes were red all of a sudden, and he was coming at them, so sam swung his machete and a moment later his head was in the corner of the room, his once flaring orbs dimming until they glazed over, their aggressive fiery hue long gone. dean gripped his blade tighter, watching the doors open and a woman run into the room.

“ _lucas!_ ” she cried, falling onto the floor next to the headless body. she took it into her hands, her eyes quickly watering as she hugged the corpse, watching the still warm blood pool on the floor from where his neck once was. “no, no… please, lucas…” she chanted under her breath, the words slurring together.

and then she looked at them. at the two men with machetes, still standing in the room, ready to cut her head off, but not willing to unless she gave them a reason to. dean knew he should be focused on the way redness was seeping into her once warm brown eyes, but instead he found himself looking at the salty rivers running down her face. “what have you done?!” she shouted, her voice shaking.

and she came at them, fueled by anger and grief, fangs sprouting from her gums. and dean just stood there, motionless, lost in the way he saw a shadow of himself in her. he didn’t move, frozen and shocked, his hands once again starting to tremble dangerously and throat constricting around the unswallowable ball of regret.

_swish!_ a blade cut through the air, and then a dull thump echoed slightly, another head falling onto the cold ground. sam’s breath was heavy as he stared at his brother, the gaze thick with words he chose not to say.

they didn’t talk on the way to the car. dean thought it was quite convenient that sam didn’t feel the need to talk, but now, with just the two of them rolling down the empty street, the silence feels suffocating. he rolls down his window and sticks out his head, closing his eyes at the feeling of chilly air brushing his face, ruffling his bangs and running its invisible fingers through his sweaty hair. and, for just a while, he feels like he knows everything now, like this feeling is all he needs to know; he wonders if it’s how _he_ used to feel all the time. the cold breeze caresses his face almost harshly, blowing the tears from his cheeks. dean almost feels complete.

the only thing missing is _him_ , next to dean, baring his teeth in a slight smile and wrapping his invisible wings around him. the blue tie and black sweaty hair, and the arms that were so good at locking him within their embrace he never wanted to escape. the smell of unconditionality, of utter acceptance and trust. of his love.

it’s the little things he misses the most, it’s the details he longs for. things so simple they’re just inimitable, simply unachievable without him. so dean lets his tears get dried off by the cold wind, staring at the clear sky, wondering if he’s at least sleeping soundly in the empty. hoping he’s not suffering like dean is without him.

“i miss him, too.”

sam’s voice is quiet, but dean flinches nonetheless, freezing once he realizes what he’s saying. he wants to say something, anything, but the words die in his throat. and for once, he really wants to cry. wants for his tears to find their way from under his eyelids and disappear, dragging some of his pain away, releasing just a small bit of his suppressed feelings. but he’s frozen. now, that he knows sam is aware of his state, he just can’t bring himself to finally unhing the curtain he’s been hiding behind since before he can remember. even though he knows it would be good for him, good for sam; even though he knows it’s what _he_ would want. he just can’t.

so he stays silent. he hates himself for it just a little bit more.

  
  


⛦

  
  


the bunker’s quiet without him. dean can’t even look at the door behind which he lost another one of the reasons he has to live. he doesn’t look in the direction where his room was, doesn’t go in the corridor that led to his door. not even sammy goes there. dean wonders if it’s cooled down by now, or maybe it still holds just a piece of his warmth that used to seep into the walls.

he keeps his photo in the drawer of his nightstand, though he can’t bring himself to look at his face.

sometimes sam goes out. he doesn’t ever invite eileen inside — dean suspects it’s because of him — but dean knows he’s meeting her. without him, dean’s alone with the shadow of a person he’ll never see again and the echo of words he’ll never be able to tell him. those days (and nights, though it’s rare for sam to stay out after midnight nowadays) it’s not only quiet, but suffocating, too. dean wishes he had someone to meet outside of his cage of a home, too, but he knows the only person that matters to him will never be around to meet.

he doesn’t really know why he answers the door that day. sam’s gone out, probably with eileen or someone else that dean doesn’t have a wish to see right now. he doesn't expect any guests; they haven’t had any since they finally defeated chuck. so why is someone knocking insistently on the door?

dean approaches the door with a gun in his hand, ready to shoot whatever and whoever it is if it’s not _him_. he focuses on the shuffling coming from the outside, on the somewhat familiar sound of gasping for air, on the weight of a weapon fitted in his palm. hesitantly, he pushes the door open, only to freeze in his spot.

because there he is. standing before him, in the same old trench coat, face smudged with dirt and a sheepish smile. his hair’s greasy; he reeks of cold air, benzine and sweat, and his eyes glimmer when he looks directly into dean’s own with his usual intense stare. and then there’s his voice, the deep, heavy with relief tune dean thought he would never hear again:

“ _dean._ ”

the gun falls out of dean’s trembling hand.

he’s frozen. stiff and still, he observes the way cas’ mouth curls upwards a bit as a flash of hope runs through his glazed over eyes, blue as ever. one of his own hands travels absentmindedly to his face and brushes against the familiar dark stubble, cupping his face eventually and gently sliding his shaking thumb over his cheekbone. the skin is warm under his fingertips, soft and just a little bit sweaty, and dean bites down a sob as he latches onto him with his whole body, the force and rapidity causing their connected bodies to stumble backwards.

“you fucking dumb ass piece of shit,” dean cries into his shoulder, not caring if the tears streaming down his face will seep into the angel’s shirt. “don’t you _ever_ do that again, do you understand?!”

cas doesn’t answer. he just pushes his face into the crook of dean’s neck and crushes him within his embrace. it’s not long before dean feels the familiar salty liquid hotness on his skin, running down the side of his neck. and even though they’re both crying on the doorstep and random mumbled profanities targeted at the angel are still spilling from his mouth, for the first time since he lost cas he feels hope rushing through his veins.

for the first time since cas was taken away from him, he feels his life doesn’t have to be over just yet.

there’s a smile on cas’ face, wide and toothy, and there are salty cascades running down his cheeks and snot coming out of his nose. dean watches him through wet, glazed eyes. the thought washes over him, quick like a lightning, that cas looks like everything he’s ever wanted; he’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. dean says something strangely like ‘ _i hate you so much_ ’, then something that sounds similar to ‘ _don’t you ever leave me like that again_ ’, only to end with a choked out ‘ _i didn’t have the time to say it back_ ’.

and he doesn’t really think. he just grabs cas’ cheek with one hand, putting the other on his chin and brings his face up so he would look at him, his sapphire orbs equally as teary as his own. “you fucking moron,” he spits out. and he connects their lips in the wettest, distustingly salty, perfect first kiss he could’ve ever imagined.

it’s nowhere near gentle, but somehow it feels delicate, intimate even. cas is stiff for just a second, surprised with the sudden attack, but he melts into it as soon as dean moves his hand from his chin to the back of his neck and pulls him closer towards himself. cas clutches his waist in an almost bruising grip, but as he slowly relaxes even more his hands go almost limp, no longer squeezing desperately, now only holding him in order to keep them pressed against each other. they’re so close to each other they’re almost one.

cas doesn’t do much on his own. doesn’t know how, or maybe he just wants dean to take the lead. so dean’s the first one to tilt his head, push his tongue into the angel’s awaiting mouth and grab him by the shoulders to pull him into the bunker and shut the door behind their intertwined bodies. it’s dean who pushes cas’ back against the wall and presses further into him, as if trying to blend with him, to merge them together. to never leave each other alone, never again.

and when the separate finally and cas looks at him, his eyes glassy, dean smiles at him. “don’t you ever leave me again, cas,” he says, his voice quiet and chest heaving. “the world’s not worth saving if you ain’t a part of it.”

cas frowns suspiciously. “is this your way of announcing your reciprocation of my feelings towards you?”

dean rolls his eyes. “shut up.” then he kisses him again.


End file.
